


Whoever you are, no matter how lonely

by Querulousgawks



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Injury Recovery, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Trust, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5948203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Querulousgawks/pseuds/Querulousgawks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bittle nodded, like this wasn’t completely fucking ridiculous, and it hit Jack that Bittle had fainted on the ice over a practice check as recently as September. He knew exactly what it was like, probably better than Jack did, for your body to override reality and training and common sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whoever you are, no matter how lonely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wittylittleknitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wittylittleknitter/gifts).



> This was push-pulled into shape by the inimitable [trulyawkwardquestions](http://archiveofourown.org/users/trulyawkwardquestions/pseuds/trulyawkwardquestions), who beta'ed it basically as I wrote it and left me with a google doc full of comments that I will cackle over forever.  
> Title is from Mary Oliver's [Wild Geese](http://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/geese/geese.html), a very Jack Zimmermann poem.

Jack didn't expect physical therapy to be a problem.

The _injury_ was a problem, yes, because he'd gotten it by making a preventable mistake on the ice. An unforced error, a phrase that he had heard for the first time in a PoliSci class and had understood like a memory, like going home and hearing a word he’d lost for a while in the states. Later Camilla had told him it originated from tennis, that she obsessed about her unforced errors, and it had made even more sense. A double-fault on a serve, a damning phrase into a switched-on microphone, getting addicted to the medicine that made you really good at the one thing you loved to do...yeah. A disaster that was nobody’s fault but your own was plenty familiar territory for Jack.

But PT was the kind of thing he was supposed to be good at. He rarely had trouble following hockey-related instructions, and he’d gotten along well with the trainer who had shown him the exercises. She had even had a twin to his poster hanging in the clinic. _Be better:_ with that demand and reminder staring back at him, he had no trouble stretching his frozen shoulder to her exact specifications and leaving it there until she released him, widening his range of motion by millimeters each session.

It was the only way, every medical professional in the place had seemed determined to remind him, with such a tricky injury. Slack off and he’d never regain mobility, but stretch too far and he could injure himself worse. ( _Be out for even longer, in his last season in college, his last chance at the ECAC, his last chance to win for - his last chance.)_

Anyway. He’d done the exercises perfectly. Which is why they had trusted him enough to take the instructions and do them at the Haus, away from the pale green walls and rustle of paper gowns that he would just - rather not be around, even though his aversion was pointless and probably weak. _Go at your own pace_ , they had all said, and to the credit of sports medicine everywhere, they had usually sounded like they meant it. All he had to do was stretch his shoulder to just below his pain threshold, and then hold still.

No problem.

The first morning he didn’t have to leave for the clinic, Jack let himself stay in bed for ten minutes longer than usual, trying to focus on the solitary peace instead of the relentless tightness of his shoulder. He showered to warm his muscles, like the trainer had insisted was necessary, even though it felt weird to wash when he wasn’t dirty. Wasteful. But they were trusting him to follow the instructions. He dressed slowly in his own clothes, loose like he was about to go for the run he wasn’t cleared for, and wheeled his chair around to face his own poster.

_Be Better._

The easiest stretch let him use his good hand to control the pressure, pulling his left arm slowly across his body. He was definitely stronger than yesterday; he could feel the extra give, he - pain seared a red line to his collarbone and Jack dropped his hand, panting.

He wasn’t going to do this in front of the poster, that was all.

The house was quiet, still. Bittle’s checking practice was on hold until this cleared up. (Holster had offered, and Jack - that would have been fine, obviously; it was a practical solution, probably better than just working with one person, anyway, and he’d just been getting his breath under control to say so when Bittle had politely declined.) No one else willingly woke before dawn on a Sunday. No one had to see him struggle with this simple, basic thing.

He started over with the pendulum stretch. Jack faced the green couch, for comfort - people had made much worse decisions on that couch than he ever would, which was something to point out to Bittle on his next campaign to get it out of the house - and bent from his waist, allowing his arm to hang a moment before rotating it gently.

It felt like nothing. He pushed the circles a little wider and - there - the edges of discomfort. He just had to keep it steady, at this level. It was his own body, this was _his job_ , it was supposed to be hard, he -

The front door clicked open and he collapsed forward onto the couch, shaking. It wasn’t as much distance as it should have been; he’d been curling closer to it as his mind ratcheted up. _Shitshitshit._ He’d get up in a second and salvage this, greet whoever it was. (The familiar hour, the lightness of the steps through the foyer, the indrawn breath he was used to hearing just before he dropped his shoulder for the check: he knew who it was.) Greet the inexplicably-awake Bittle, then get him out of here, and get back to following instructions.

Jack turned his face away as the footsteps approached. The air that had rushed in felt cold against his bare arms, but his cheek was hot and damp against the pile of the fabric. He wasn’t going to give up. This was just - a setback.

“I thought you were asleep,” he muttered to the couch.

“I thought everybody was, what are you -” Bittle whispered back, then said a little more loudly: “No, I can’t do it, I know there’s an injury exemption but your face _cannot_ be touching that cushion, Jack, please get up.” His voice was warm, a little broken at the edges with shortness of breath like he’d been - had he been? Jack lifted himself gingerly to peer at Bittle, who clearly _had_ been out running. 

Something must have shown on his face, because Bittle shifted a little, restlessly, and explained: “My body thinks this is get-up-and-work-time now, I guess. You’ve successfully rubbed off on m- I mean, trained me.” His flush from exercise had faded but it came back full force as he trailed off. Jack tried to smirk, even as he felt grateful that his own cheeks were already warm. _Trained me_ wasn't much less - well. Shitty had ruined them both, really.

Bittle smacked him lightly on his good arm, and Jack jolted.

“I have to get back to PT,” he said reluctantly, resisting the urge to ask about the run. It was good to see him conditioning in the absence of checking practice, and it would have been easier to discuss a teammate’s routine than face his own.

Bittle backed up immediately, but lingered a minute at the door. “You do the Havard stretches for capulitis, right?” He smiled at Jack’s surprised look. “Lot of shoulder problems in figure skating. I’ll let you get to it. But -”

“What?” Jack tried not to say it too sharply, fill the pause too soon. He didn’t think Bittle hesitated much around him, anymore, so a pause meant - what? He was doing these wrong, so wrong it was embarrassing to point out? Or it was just that they were so simple, it seemed rude to correct him. Jack’s breath was picking up, again - it was so _stupid._ But he needed to know.

“We just usually stretched in pairs,” Bittle said slowly, his eyes on the door knob. “It’s hard to judge for your own self, where your limits are, especially when something ain’t working right.” He took another step back, as if to counter his words, and offered lightly, “Not saying you can’t do it, I’m sure you don’t need - just, holler if you want a hand, hear?”

“I -” _can handle it_ , he wanted to say - to shout, really, but it wouldn’t be true, would it? He wouldn’t get better by lying about his failures. But then: “you have that paper to do, Bittle. You can’t waste time on this.”

“Before the last game you were checking me into the boards twice a week,” Bittle reminded him, sounding pointed but also fonder about it than he ever did at 5 in the morning. “Was that a waste of your time?” Jack opened his mouth to argue that it was different, he was the - but Bittle swept on: “and don’t you ‘I’m the captain’ me, Jack Zimmermann.”

His jaw closed with a click of teeth. “I wasn’t going to say that.” It wasn’t his _only_ argument.

Bittle leaned against the door frame and lifted his hands, looking confident and at ease the way he only ever did in flashes - in the kitchen, at the shinny, the day last spring when he’d smiled that same smile and said almost the same thing as now: “You _are_ the captain. But we all still got your back, all right?”

Jack blew out a breath. “They're simple stretches. But. The trainers at the clinic would always hold the stretch for me. And they cleared me and I have the list, I know what to do but I can’t -” _Lie._ “I’m not good at -” _Excuse._ “I’m not holding myself still.”

Bittle nodded, like this wasn’t completely fucking ridiculous, and it hit Jack that Bittle had fainted on the ice over a practice check as recently as September. He knew exactly what it was like, probably better than Jack did, for your body to override reality and training and common sense.

Just as that epiphany made it possible for Jack to meet his eyes again, Bittle pushed off the door and came towards him, repeating, “Want a hand?” in a determinedly casual tone. He wasn’t smiling anymore, but his expression looked - careful, the way it had last year when Bittle had never known (because _Jack_ had never known) whether Jack was going to be friendly or a dick. After the concussion, after Jack had failed him and Bittle had supported him anyway, Jack had never wanted to see that expression again. Seeing it now made him want to curl back into the couch and disappear.

“Hey,” Bittle said, softly from right next to him, and _that_ sounded different. Like he was worried _for_ Jack, not about what Jack might do. The thought wasn't oppressive, or embarrassing; he might just have been tired still but suddenly Bitty's concern felt like a tangible thing, a low sure pressure he could relax against. Bittle's hands would be the same, as steady as the trainer's; and he wouldn't let Jack obsess over this anymore than he had over that damn pastry project last fall. It could work. He noticed absently that it wasn’t cold in the living room anymore - because the sun was up, probably. He had wasted a lot of time in the dark.

“Yeah.” Jack said. He could sound casual, too. “Yeah, I could use a spotter, Bittle. Thanks.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, I AIMED for this awesome prompt:  
> just give me subby tendencies!jack being taken care of. preferably by bitty or shitty. i dont care if there's sex involved as long as there's like, so much aftercare. (hell, you could have the whole thing be aftercare and i would not give a single fuck i would love it)  
> throw whatever au ya want in there if it helps you, so long as someone (anyone!!!!) takes care of jack!!!!!!!!!!!! make my baby feel loved/safe/like he doesn't have to shoulder the weight of the Entire Planet all the time
> 
> But I didn't really get there, so I'm officially fulfilling your "free pass" prompt (which, bless you, seriously, for putting that in there) with the implications of Jack's subby tendencies? and suggestions of Bitty's skill at aftercare? They are on the precipice? Yes.


End file.
